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from Pobrecito by Dear Blanca

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lyrics

Mary, by the slot machine
Here's to my luck
in Atlantic City tonight
I'm at the pier with you now
It's colder than hell
in Atlantic City tonight

Standing in the light, you tell me sevens come in threes
Fingers crossed while I drop knickels into this machine
I don't have the nerve to tell you how it ought to be
so I'm swapping stories with the suicidal king

Frank is crooning about
the memory-go-round,
dead bulbs on old marquees
Mary, lets live in the past
like old photographs
for my brother's children to see